


Night Songs

by eigengrau



Series: We Don't Need Words To Speak [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bruce and Natasha Don't Talk About Feelings, F/M, Fingerfucking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can I come in?," she asks, standing sillhouetted in the doorway of his bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Songs

"Can I come in?," she asks, standing sillhouetted in the doorway of his bedroom. The light from the hall is dimmed, but compared to the blackness Bruce wraps himself in while he sleeps it's unexpectedly bright. 

 

There's no point in pretending he was actually asleep. Natasha's probably the most observant person in the tower, barring Clint, and no doubt she knows by now the exact way Bruce looks when he's conscious and when he's not. Bruce wishes he could say he knew her that well. But even though they've been spending more and more nights in the same bed, it's still hard for him to get a bead on her- when she's lying, when she's honest. He suspects that those terms may be too black-and-white for the way Natasha lives, and he's given up on trying to figure it out.

 

"Okay," he says, because he'll  _always_  say, "Okay," to Natasha.

 

She crosses the room, silent as a cat, and slips in under the cotton sheets. Her bare foot brushes against his calf and he rolls over. Her eyes glint in the darkness, and she reaches out to drag her fingers through the coarse hair on his chest. He kisses her neck, just below her ear.

 

"Why now?" He asks her skin.

 

She shrugs. "Because I can't sleep for more than ten minutes at a time. Because the adrenaline from the fight today hasn't worn off yet. Because I can hear Clint and Phil through the ceiling of my room, and I can hear Tony and Steve and Pepper through the floor, and I'm sure if Tony hadn't soundproofed Thor's suite I'd be able to hear him and Jane as well."

 

Bruce huffs out a laugh. 

 

"Because I can either go to the gym and work until JARVIS forces me out or come here and not have to worry about leaving." She continues. Bruce tenses as she hooks a leg around his waist. "Because I've drifted off about five times and every time I wake up with this ache, and it isn't going away."

 

She takes his hand in hers and guides it down, slipping under the waistband of her sweatpants. She's wet, slick and warm, and he carefully presses his fingers into her and watches her sigh.

 

This isn't the first time she's come to him for this. It isn't even the second, or the third, or the fourth. They've made rules. Bruce wrote them down in the spiral bound notebook that lives in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. It's a routine; one they've talked about, negotiated, agreed on. 

 

Natasha pants softly as he rubs circles against her clit, thumbing the bundle of nerves again and again. Little jolts run through her as she contracts around his fingers, one and then two and then three. Her eyes are open, heavy-lidded, watching under the sheets as he touches her, adjusted to the dark, pupils blown and black. Her short nails dig into his shoulders. He crooks his fingers, searching, and she buries her face in his shoulder, shuddering silently through her orgasm.

 

Bruce pulls his dripping fingers from her and wipes them on her belly. She shivers, reaches down to grab at the sheets, gasps, "Again."

 

Crawling down, he pushes the sheets away and draws her long, pale legs over his shoulders. He's hard against the mattress, but it's nothing that willpower and a cold shower later won't fix. They don't risk it- that's one of the rules. It's the first rule on their list, actually. Their safeword is, "Green." Bruce had chosen it. Natasha had raised one elegant eyebrow appraisingly, then agreed that it was probably the easiest to remember.

 

He pulls her underwear off, noticing the distended elastic where he had pushed them to the side only minutes ago. Her heel knocks against his back and he grips her thighs in his hands, spreading her legs and ducking down to lick a stripe up her cunt. She arches off the bed and drops her head back as his tongue swirls around her swollen clit. In the sheets her fingers clench and unclench, kneading, scrabbling for purchase. He knows she'd much rather have them in his hair- she likes his hair, stroking it, running her nails gently over his scalp- but she holds back for his sake. He's told her how it feels when she tugs, the way it prickles down his spine like an electric shock, how it makes him  _just that much harder_. Just enough to drive him over the edge. Just enough to make it dangerous.

 

It's rule #4.

 

When he licks inside her she inhales shakily and he closes his eyes. She smells amazing, tastes amazing, and he groans as she flutters under his tongue. Natasha is quiet- breaths, gasps, silent enocuragements or demands. There's no faking here, no moans or cries for his benefit. Nothing but skin on skin, teeth and tongues and touching. She doesn't need to make noise. He can _feel_  her.

 

He rolls her clit between his fingers and thrusts his tongue, and she comes with a gasp, toes curling. It's a minute before she can relax her legs to slide them off his shoulders. It's another minute before he can gather his thoughts and grit his teeth enough to stand, painfully hard, and stumble to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, dial twisted all the way to the left, he glances through the half-open door. Natasha lies sprawled out on the bed, naked except for her t-shirt, heaving shuddering, deep breaths as she stares at the ceiling.

 

Bruce takes a deep breath of his own and steps under the icy water.


End file.
